THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


Kenneth  Macgowan 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 


Behind  a  Watteau 
Picture 

A  Fantasy  in  Verse,  in  One  Act 


By 
ROBERT  EMMONS  ROGERS 


All  rights  to  Behind  a  Watteau  Picture  are  reserved, 
and  performances,  whether  professional  or  amateur,  may 
be  given  only  on  payment  of  royalty.  The  professional 
rights,  including  little  theatres  and  drama  societies  which 
give  a  season  of  plays,  are  in  the  hands  of  Frank  Conroy, 
director  tof  the  Greenwich  Village  Theatre,  Sheridan 
Square,  New  York  City,  to  whom  application  should  be 
made.  Applications  for  amateur  production  by  schools, 
clubs  or  societies,  should  be  made  to  Professor  Robert  E. 
Rogers,  Massachusetts  Institute  of  Technology,  Cambridge, 
Mass.  The  royalty  for  amateur  production  is  ten  dollars 
for  each  performance. 


BOSTON 

WALTER  H.  BAKER  &  CO. 
1918 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  ROBERT  EMMONS  ROGERS 
as  author  and  proprietor 

All  rights  reserved 


75 
3535 

TU34.L 


71?  My  Wife 
MARIE  EAER  ROGERS 


5650G5 


Behind  a  Watteau  Picture 


CHARACTERS 

A  MUSEUM  GUIDE. 

A  WATTEAU  MARQUISE. 
A  WATTEAU  MARQUIS. 
A  WATTEAU  POET. 

THE  MELANCHOLY  PIERROT. 
HARLEQUIN. 
COLUMBINE. 
A  FAT  PIERROT. 

FOUR  CHINESE  LANTERN  BEARERS. 
Two  NEGRO  GRAVE-DIGGERS. 
Two  LUTANISTS. 


[vii] 


Notes  for  Amateur  Producers 

Behind  a  Watleau  Picture  was  first  given  by  amateurs 
of  The  Artists'  Guild  of  St.  Louis  under  the  direction  of 
David  Carb,  in  November,  1916. 

The  first  professional  production  was  by  Frank  Conroy, 
at  the  Greenwich  Village  Theatre,  New  York  City,  in 
November,  1917.  The  fantasy  was  on  the  opening  bill 
of  the  theatre  and  ran  for  seven  weeks,  with  scenery  by 
Hewlett  and  Basing  and  special  music  by  W.  Franke 
Harling. 

Although  the  New  York  production  was  elaborate,  the 
success  of  the  first  attempt  at  St.  Louis  proved  con 
clusively  that  the  piece  can  be  given  by  amateurs  on  a 
restricted  stage.  A  few  suggestions  may  be  helpful. 

The  same  setting,  gateway  and  sky,  may  be  used  for 
both  scenes.  The  first  scene  is  set  far  forward  and  en 
closed  in  a  large  gilt  frame.  On  the  lowering  of  the 
lights  at  the  end  of  Scene  I,  the  picture  frame  disappears 
and  the  gateway  with  its  sky  drop  is  moved  to  the  back 
of  the  stage  where,  with  the  smaller  set  scenery  and 
properties,  it  does  for  the  rest  of  the  play.  The  play 
closes  on  Pierrot's  song  without  the  change  back  to  the 
picture  indicated  in  the  text. 

Scenery  and  costumes  need  not  be  expensive  but 
should  approximate  in  color  and  shade  the  pastel  twilight 
tones  of  a  Watteau  picture.  The  Watteau  characters 
should  wear  the  costumes  of  his  pictures  ;  the  Pierrot 
group,  their  traditional  clothes  ;  Chinese  and  Negroes 
should  be  brilliant  and  bizarre  in  the  new  manner, 
[ix] 


Both  productions  have  used  an  intermittent  musical 
obligato.  Mr.  Harling's  music,  written  for  a  string 
quartette,  may  be  procured  on  application  to  Mr.  Conroy. 
Societies  making  a  less  elaborate  production  will  doubt 
less  prefer  the  device  used  in  St.  Louis,  a  thoroughly 
competent  pianist  improvising  according  to  the  action. 
Characteristic  themes  for  character  and  action,  taken 
from  well-known  composers  of  repute,  may  be  worked 
out  during  rehearsal.  The  verses  for  the  duel-minuet 
were  written  to  the  music  of  Jupiter's  Minuet  in  the  last 
scene  of  Offenbach's  Orpheus  Aux  Enfers. 

The  spirit  of  the  play  should  be  that  of  poetic  fantasy 
rather  than  melodrama.  Players  should  be  chosen  for 
their  grace  and  ease  and  particularly  for  their  ability  to 
speak  rhymed  verse  skillfully.  Care  should  be  taken 
not  to  strive  for  "  naturalness  "  at  the  expense  of  cadence 
and  rhyme.  Beauty  of  diction,  of  grouping,  of  color  and 
lighting  .  .  .  these  are  the  essentials. 

R.  E.  R. 


(Bill  of  the  original  professional  performance) 

The  Greenwich  Village  Theatre 

Fourth  Street  and  Seventh  Avenue,  New  York 
BILL  OF  THE  PLA  YS 

BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

A  Fantasy  in  Two  Scenes  by  Robert  £.  Rogers,  with 
Incidental  Music  by  W.  Franke  Hurling 

A  GUIDE Mr.  Eugene  Ward 

A  WATTEAU  MARQUISE  -  Miss  Margaret  Fareleigh 
A  WATTEAU  MARQUIS  -  Mr.  Meltzer 

A  WATTEAU  POET  -  -  -  -  Mr.  Everett  Glass 
A  FAT  PIERROT  -  ...  Mr.  Strawbridge 

HARLEQUIN Mr.  Macaulay 

FIRST  LANTERN  BEARER  -  -  Mr.  Remo  Bufano 
SECOND  LANTERN  BEARER  -  -  Mr.  McDonald 
THIRD  LANTERN  BEARER  -  Mr.  David  Pennington 
FOURTH  LANTERN  BEARER  -  Mr.  Leonard  Brooke 
FIRST  GRAVE  DIGGER  -  Mr.  Lapham 

SECOND  GRAVE  DIGGER  -  -  Mr.  George  Weston 
COLUMBINE  -----  Miss  Fania  Marinoff 
A  MELANCHOLY  PIERROT  -  -  Mr.  Sydney  Carlyle 

The  piece  has  been  staged  by  Mr.  Conroy.  The  settings 
have  been  designed  by  Messrs.  Hewlett  and  Basing,  and 
executed  at  the  Hewlett-Basing  Studios.  The  costumes 
have  been  designed  by  Mr.  Robert  E.  Locher. 

THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

A    Comedy  in    One  Act  by  Arthur  Schnitzler 
Translated  by  Charles  Henry  Meltzer 

"  The  Festival  of  Bacchus  "  has  been  staged  under  the 
direction  of  Mr.  Roland  Young.  The  setting  is  by  Messrs. 
Hewlett  and  Basing. 

EFFICIENCY 

A  Play  in  One  Act  by  Robert  H.  Davis  and 

Perley  Poore  Sheehan 

"  Efficiency  "  has  been  staged  by  Mr.  Conroy.  The  setting 
has  been  designed  by  Mr.  John  Wenger  and  executed  by 
Messrs.  Hewlett  and  Basing. 


PLEASE  NOTICE 


The  professional  stage-rights  in  this  play  are  strictly  reserved 
by  the  author.  Applications  for  its  use  should  be  addressed 
to  FRANK  CONROY,  Greenwich  Village  Theatre,  Sheridan 
Square,  New  York  City. 


Attention  is  called  to  the  penalties  provided  by  the  Copyright 
Law  of  the  United  States  of  America  in  force  July  I,  1909,  for 
any  infringement  of  his  rights,  as  follows : 

SEC.  28.  That  any  person  who  wilfully  and  for  profit  shall  infringe  any 
Copyright  secured  by  this  Act,  or  who  shall  knowingly  and  wilfully  aid 
or  abet  such  infringement,  shall  be  deemed  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and 
upon  conviction  thereof  shall  be  punished  by  imprisonment  for  not  ex 
ceeding  one  year  or  by  a  fine  of  not  less  than  one  hundred  dollars,  or  both, 
at  the  discretion  of  the  court. 

SBC.  29.  That  any  person  who,  with  fraudulent  intent,  shall  insert  or 
impress  any  notice  of  Copyright  required  by  this  Act,  or  words  of  the 
same  purport,  in  or  upon  any  uncopyrighted  article,  or  with  fraudulent  in 
tent  shall  remove  or  alter  the  copyright  notice  upon  any  article  duly  copy 
righted  shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  punishable  by  a  fine  of  not  less 
than  one  hundred  dollars  and  not  more  than  one  thousand  dollars. 


Behind  a  Watteau  Picture 


SCENE  I 


A  shallow  -front  scene  with  back  drop,  the  whole 
set  in  a  great  gilt  picture  frame,  as  if  it  were 
a  painting.  Four  figures,  the  Watteau  people, 
are  posed  before  a  rather  high  wall,  in  the 
center  of  which  is  a  great,  double,  gilt-grilled 
gate,  of  fantastic  pattern.  At  right  and  left, 
on  this  side  of  the  wall,  two  tall,  slim,  black 
cypresses.  Over  the  wall,  to  the  left  center, 
the  upper  branches  of  a  peach  tree.  The 
wall  is  gray  and  mossy.  Above,  an  emerald- 
green  sky  .  .  .  all  very  flat  and  unreal, 
as  if  painted.  The  figures  are  posed  stiff 
and  still.  They  are  all  in  the  loose  silk  frills 
and  ruffles  of  Watteau's  paintings.  The 
Marquise  sits  on  a  little  folded  stool,  right 
center,  lax,  head  in  hand.  The  Marquis, 
half  kneeling,  to  her  right,  is  kissing  her 
hand.  At  the  other  side  the  Poet,  lounging 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

at  her  feet,  fingering  a  guitar.  At  far  right 
a  little  turbaned  negro  with  lap  dog.  The 
whole  effect  should  be  that  of  one  of  those 
languid  arrangements  of  Watteau's. 
From  the  left  comes  a  typical  Museum  Guide  in 
gray  uniform,  with  a  pointer.  He  repeats 
in  a  rapid,  professional  monotone: 

Guide. 

The  next  picture  in  the  collection, 

Ladies  and  gentlemen, 

Is  one  of  the  masterpieces 

Of  the  French  School  of  the  Bood-war 

Entitled 

"  La  Markeese  Ong- wee-ay  "... 

In  English,  "  The  Bored  Markeese." 

Painted  in  1709 

By  Jhong  Ant-wong  Watto. 

At  the  express  command  of 

Madame  de  Montespan 

Mistress  of  Looey  Katorze, 

For  the  Palace  of  Versales. 

Please  note  the  chiaroscuro, 

The  mastery  of  color  and 

The  fineness  of  the  brush-work.     .    *    . 

[2] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Also,  the  bored  expression  on  the  lady's  face, 

Considered  very  fine 

By  the  late  John  Ruskin. 

It  is  worth  $75,000 

And  is  a  companion  piece  to 

"  The  Lovesick  Peer-ro  " 

In  the  Loover,  Paris,  France. 

He  moves  toward  the  right. 

The  next  picture  in  the  collection    .     .    .. 

Exit.  The  music  rises  high  and  shrill 
in  derision,  drowning  his  voice. 
Around  the  edge  of  the  picture,  to 
the  left,  creeps  Harlequin,  spangled 
and  black  visored.  He  passes  in 
front  of  picture,  laughs,  waves  his 
bat  at  it  thrice,  then  follows  Guide 
out,  leaping  mockingly.  At  once 
the  figures  in  the  painting  begin  to 
move,  and  the  orchestra  takes  up 
the  tune  to  which  the  Poet  is  sing 
ing. 

Poet. 

There  is  a  garden  where 
Love  lies  beneath  the  moon, 
[3] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Golden  and  rose  and  fair, 
Love    ...     in  a  swoon. 
Lads  full  of  hardihood, 
Flee  when  you  hear  her  call. 
Love  bringeth  nought  of  good 
Over  Death's  wall. 

The  Poet  lays  down  his  guitar. 

Lady. 

"  Love  bringeth  nought  of  good 
Over  Death's  wall." 
How  very  fine  that  is    ...    how  true ! 

Poet. 

Twas  but  a  song  I  made  for  you, 
Tender  as  twilight,  sweet  as  your  grace.    .    -.    •. 
Lady,  to  look  upon  your  face 
Were  more  than  song  or  poetry. 

Marquis. 
To  kiss  your  hand  were  song  enough  for  me. 

Lady. 

I  am  so  weary  of  these  days 
And  these  long  nights.     .    *    * 
Have  you  no  antic  plays, 
No  maskings  or  delights 

[4] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

To  make  me  laugh  again? 

No  human  tongue  or  pen 

Can  tell  how  all  the  whole  wide  world 

Wearies  me    ...    wearies  me ! 

Poet. 

I  have  another  song  to  sing, 
Ballade  of  Ladies  Loved  and  Dead, 
Sweet  rhymes  unto  sweet  music  wed. 

Lady. 
I  pray  you,  do  not  sing. 

Marquis. 

Or  shall  we  improvise  a  play 

A  merry  garden  comedy? 

You  shall  be  soubrette,  Lady    ...    we 

Clowns,  and  make  mummery. 

Lady. 

Ah,  no    ...    no  songs  nor  plays  shall  ever 

woo  me, 

For  I  ami  weary  of  all  common  play.     .     .     ,     - 
Have  you  no  novelties  to  offer  to  me, 
Who  hate  the  sight  of  day  ? 
[5] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Have  you  no  heart  to  go  adventuring, 
Under  the  stars  to  go 
Seeking  the  other-worldly  magic  thing 
Few  men  may  know  ? 

Poet. 

Lady,  lead  on    ...     and  we  will  run 
Over  the  hills  of  yesterday 
On  to  the  mountains  of  the  moon, 
The  valleys  of  the  sun, 

Land  where  midnight  reigns  at  noon.     .     .    » 
Tally-ho    .     .     .    lead  away,  lead  away ! 

Lady. 
Slowly. 

There  is  no  magic  far  away 
Stronger  than  magic  now  and  here. 
This  ancient  wall  might  hide  the  kingdoms  of 

Cathay, 

This  quaint  and  crooked  gate 
That  creaks  so  near 

Might  bar  us  out  of  fairylands  that  wait 
Adventurers  whose  hearts  are  gay 
And  debonair. 

The  Poet  goes  and  peers  in,  shaking  his  head. 
[6] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Poet. 

Alas,  no,  Lady,  nought  within, 
Save  an  old  garden,  old  and  thin, 
Ungathered  roses, 
Poplars  dying, 

A  stagnant  pool  in  star-shine  lying    .     .    . 
There  are  all  that  the  gate  encloses. 

The  Marquis  is  obviously  impatient. 

Marquis. 
Come  away,  Lady.    .    .    .    We  can  sing  and 

feast    .    .    . 
Dance,  if  you  will, 
Or  play  at  cards  at  least. 
The  evening  is  young  still. 

Poet. 

Not  heeding. 

Who  knows,  Marquise,  but  you  are  right  ? 
That  here  beyond  this  wall     .     .     . 
Hidden  from  sight 

But  quick  to  answer  should  we  call     .     .     » 
Lie  all  romance  and  magic,  life  and  death, 
Adventure.     ...     In  a  breath, 
All  you  desire,  who  are  sick  of  all, 
Say    .    .     .     shall  I  call? 
[7] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

She  makes  an  eager  gesture  of  assent.     The 

Poet  looks  in. 

Sleeping  garden    .    .    .    arise,  look  out ! 
Wake  in  the  star-shine,  wake  and  stir    .     .    . 
There  are  adventurers  hereabout. 
Wake    .    .    .    O  wake    .    .    .    for  a  sight  of 

Her! 

(Hark!  did  you  hear  the  fountain  stir?) 
Night-blooms,  open!     Nightingale,  sing! 
(Was  that  the  poplar  whispering?) 
Sleepy  folk,  drowsy  folk,  couched  within, 
Open  the  gate    .    »    .    we  would  come  in ! 

Pause.  Then  a  sudden  scurry  of 
guitar  music,  as  if  wind-borne.  As 
the  four  look  at  each  other,  sud 
denly  at  the  gate  appears  a  Colum 
bine,  a  slim  and  lovely  child  all  rose 
and  gold,  pressed  against  the  bars, 
stretching  her  arms  through  in  en 
treaty.  To  her  comes  the  visored 
Harlequin  .  .  .  tears  her  from 
the  gate  and  drags  her  out  of  sight. 
The  guitars  sound  more  loudly,  then 
die  away. 

[8] 


BEHIND  AWATTEAU  PICTURE 

Poet. 
Eagerly; 

Here  is  Romance  for  us,  Lady.    What  ho ! 
Open    .     .     .    open,  and  let  us  in. 

Although  the  Marquis  tries  to  dis 
suade  her,  the  Lady  goes  to  the 
gate  and  pulls  the  bell-chain  which 
sounds  inside,  cracked  and  jangling. 
At  sound  of  bell,  enter  from  right — 
not  inside  the  wall  but  outside — a 
very  fat  Pierrot,  all  in  white,  with 
big  green  umbrella  and  a  market 
basket  on  his  arm.  He  lumbers  in 
with  a  queer,  dancing  gait,  regard 
less  of  the  four  who  draw  back  and 
gaze  in  astonishment  at  him;  puts 
a  big  key  in  the  gate,  and  swings  it 
open.  Dusk  within.  As  he  is  about 
to  go  in,  the  Marquise  speaks  to 
him  and  he  whirls  about  like  a 
•frightened  rabbit. 

Lady. 

Pray,  ere  you  close  it, 

May  we  go  in  for  a  moment    .    .    .    and  look? 
[9] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Fat  Pierrot. 
Tis  not  my  garden.    I  am  the  cook. 

Lady. 
Just  one  look,  then,  if  nobody  knows  it. 

Fat  Pierrot. 

You  will  not  like  it  there. 
Inside  'tis  not  a  pretty  place. 
Only  a  garden,  all  deserted    .     .     .    bare    .    .    . 
Neglected  for  a  long,  long  space. 
I'm  not  the  master    .     .     .     I'm  the  cook. 
I  dare  not  let  you  venture  in. 

Marquis.^ 
Practically. 

But  here  is  gold 

To  sweeten  your  sin. 

Let  us  but  look. 

Do  as  you're  told. 

Only  a  glimpse,  cook    .     .    . 

Look  at  him  grin ! 

Fat  Pierrot. 
In  great  perturbation. 
Tisn't  my  garden.    It  is  very  queer. 
Strange  people  wander  here.    .    .    * 
[10] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Even  in  moonlight  it  is  sad  and  old. 
Strange  people  dwell  within.    .    .    . 

Marquis. 
Let  us  but  look. 

Lady. 
Do  as  you're  told. 

Poet. 

Only  a  glimpse,  cook    .     .     . 
Look  at  him  grin ! 

Fat  Pierrot. 
Well    .    .    .    just  a  moment  then    .    .    .    but 

never  say 

I  didn't  warn  you    .    .    g 
'Tis  a  deadly  place ! 

Marquis. 

Melodramatically. 
Fat  cook,  we  scorn  you ! 

Lady.. 
Did  you  see  his  face  ? 

Poet. 

Lady,  the  gate  stands  wide. 
Dare  you  to  lead  the  way  ? 

Takes  her  hand. 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Lady. 
'Awed. 

This  is  a  strange  and  magic  gate 

We  venture  past 

Into  this  garden  where  Dusk  holds  her  state. 

Hold  fast  my  hand.    Hold  fast ! 

Creep  softly,  breathless  with  delight 

Like  daring  children.     Come    .     .     . 

Hold  tight    .    .    .    hold  tight ! 

The  four  creep  in  with  exaggerated 
caution  and  are  lost  in  the  dusk. 
The  Negro  Boy  looks  in  once,  then 
picks  up  his  guitar  and  lap-dog  and 
runs  off  rapidly,  right.  The  Cook 
Pierrot,  with  despairing  waggling 
gestures,  follows  in  fatly. 

SCENE  II 

The  wall  fades  in  darkness.  When  it  lifts  we 
are  inside  the  garden.  The  other  side  of  the 
wall  is  at  the  back,  with  the  gate  toward  the 
left.  One  of  the  cypresses  is  seen  over  the 
wall  in  the  right  hand  back  corner.  The 
other  is  missing.  At  the  right  one  goes  up 

[12] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

some  low  broad  steps  to  a  terrace  out  of 
sight;  at  the  foot  the  steps  are  flanked  by 
gray,  crumbling,  moss-covered  classic  statues. 
At  the  left  the  garden-wall,  out  of  sight,  is 
masked  by  thick  high  rose-bushes  in  bloom. 
In  front  of  them  facing  the  terrace  is  a  long 
low  curving  stone  seat  on  a  raised  step  of 
stone.  Toward  left  center  a  peach  tree 
trained  against  the  wall  makes  against  the 
flat  green  evening  sky  a  delicate,  not  too 
thick,  silhouette  of  twig  and  leaf,  somehow 
formal  and  unreal.  On  the  right  above  the 
wall  the  open  sky  is  seen.  Under  this  clear 
space  a  few  steps,  unobtrusive,  go  up  the 
wall-side  to  its  flat  top.  There  is  ivy  on  the 
wall.  Rather  luxuriant  and  neglected  shrubs 
and  flowers  are  about  and  a  weather-worn 
statue  or  two  of  soft  stone.  To  right  and 
back  of  center,  almost  under  the  wall,  is  a 
half  finished  grave  with  earth  thrown  up 
about  it.  All  is  in  a  green  dusk.  There  has 
been  no  pause  in  the  music.  As  the  light 
goes  on  the  four  file  in  through  the  gate,  one 
after  another,  but  hand  in  hand,  at  a  quick 
ening  pace.  The  Lady,  who  is  leading, 

tu] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

moves  faster  and  faster  and  in  a  circle,  until 
she  finally  has  them  all  in  a  sort  of  ring 
around  a  rosy.  Just  inside  the  gate  the  Fat 
Pierrot  stands  unquiet  and  peering  off  right 
with  scared  face. 

Lady. 

To-night  we  are  children    .    .    s 
Gayest  of  children, 
Dancing,  dancing 
In  an  old  Garden     .     .     . 
Round  and  round  and  round ! 

The  Men. 
Rapidly. 

Round  and  round  and  round  and  round, 
Ring  around  a  rosy ! 

Suddenly  the  Lady  breaks  away  and 
the  dance  stops  abruptly,  all  staring 
at  her.  She  looks  about  nervously. 

Poet. 
What  is  the  matter  ?    Why  are  you  pale  ? 

Lady. 

This  is  no  place  to  dance,  my  dears ! 
This  is  a  strange,  strange  corner  of  the  world, 
No  place  to  dance.     .     .     . 

C'4] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Poet. 

There  is  a  sudden  wind  from  the  gate, 
Blowing  me  cold. 

Lady. 

Cold    .    .    .    and  afraid. 
Shut  the  gate,  shut  the  gate, 
Then  we  will  dance  again. 
The  Poet  pushes  the  gate  together  violently. 

Fat  Pierrot. 

Softly    .     .     .     softly    .     ,    . 
Lest  the  gate  creak ! 

Marquis.^ 

Looking  about  idly. 
What  a  strange  garden, 
Deserted  and  old. 

Poet. 
The  world  passes  by  and  forgets  it. 

Fat  Pierrot. 
Your  pardon ! 
But  pray  do  not  speak 
Over  a  whisper,  or  we  are  all  lost ! 
C'5] 


Lady. 

Poor  garden !    Where  the  wind  seems  always  cold 
And  age-old  cypresses  keep  their  watch. 
The  walls  are  gray  and  green  with  mould.     .     .    . 

Poet. 

The  very  roses  droop  as  if  with  frost.     .     .    . 
BIT  !     I'm  cold,  too ! 

Marquis. 
And  I! 

Poet. 
It  is  a  chill 

That  creeps  into  the  heart  and  makes  it  still. 

Lady. 
True !     So  I  feel  it  in  my  heart. 

Fat  Pierrot. 

Now  you  have  seen  it    ...    pray  depart. 
Go  quickly.     Here  it  is  not  well. 

Marquis. 

What  a  strange  story  might  this  tell ! 
This  garden,  made  for  moonshine  and  delight, 
For  lutes  and  lovers     ...     on  a  summer 

night    .     .     . 

Now  left  so  empty  and  so  spiritless. 
[16] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Lady. 

It  seems  profane  to  come  here  in  this  dress, 
In  these  gay  frills,  this  frou-frou  of  soft  silk. 

Poet. 
Inspired. 

This  is  a  garden  of  the  forgotten  past    .    .    . 
Shadows,  shadows  everywhere 
Of  little  ladies  who  were  fair, 
Whose  beauty  might  not  last. 

Lady. 
Catching  up  the  thought  in  the  same  pensive 

mood. 

Here,  under  moonshine   .    .   .   oh,  so  white   .   .   . 
Their  lovers  wooed  them  tenderly, 
Begging  them  to  requite 

Their  hot  young  passions.     Can  you  see  ?    .    .    . 
Here,  there,  beneath  the  wall, 
Beside  the  fountain  and  the  pool 
Blown  into  spray  by  night  winds  cool, 
Can  you  not  see  their  shadows  pass  and  flee? 
Can  you  not  hear  their  false,  light  voices  call  ? 

Poet. 

Shade  of  each  gallant  boy  and  maid, 
Provoking  girls  and  girls  afraid    .     .    * 

[17] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

And  girls  whose  hot  hearts  risked  their  all 
For  one  night  of  such  gallantry. 
This  is  a  garden  of  dead  happiness, 
Of  vanished  love  and  folly,  where  the  moon 
Peers  in  o'  nights    .    .    .    wistful    .    .    .    regret 
ful.     .     .     .     Soon 

Veiling  her  face     ...     to  see  the  emptiness 
Of  dead  youth  wooing  to  a  dead  flute's  tune. 

Lady. 
Let  us  go  back ! 

Marquis. 
It  might  be  well  to  go. 

To  Fat  Pierrot. 
My  man,  who  lives  here  ?     I  should  like  to  know. 

Fat  Pierrot. 
I'll  tell  you    ...    if  you  haste  and  leave. 

Poet. 
Tell  me !    The  place  intrigues  me  so ! 

Fat  Pierrot. 

Looking  about  fearfully. 
A  strange,  strange  master!     I  believe 
He's  called  the  Melancholy  Pierrot, 
[18] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

With  strange  deep  eyes  and  lips  all  worn  and  thin. 

He  dwells  alone.     Here  no  one  enters  in, 

Save  whom  he  bids    .    .    .    and  he  bids  no  one. 

Lady. 

It  was  a  foolish  thing  to  venture  through 
That  rusting  gateway    .     .     .    even  for  a  lark. 

Marquis. 
We  are  two  men,  Madame,  to  guard  you. 

Poet. 
Suddenly. 

Hark! 

Did  I  hear  music    .     .     .    like  a  lover's  lute? 

And  are  those  torches,  too  ? 

Fat  Pierrot. 
Torches !    For  God's  sake,  then,  be  mute ! 

Lady. 
Looking  out  tozvard  the  right  as  the  others 

do. 

I  thought  it  was  the  orange  moon 
Rising  strangely  by  the  pond. 
Nay,  it  comes  toward  us     ...     and  beyond 
C'9] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Another    .    .    .    and  another  still    .     .    , 
Four  moons  all  round  and  red, 
Lifting  as  if  they  climbed  a  little  hill, 
And  one  bobs  on  ahead. 

Fat  Pierrot. 

Too  late,  too  late    .    .     .    you  cannot  flee   .   .   f 
Hide    .    .    .    hide!    .     .    . 

Poet. 
Why,  I  cannot  see    ... 

Marquis. 

Haughtily. 
Gentlemen  do  not  hide. 

Fat  Pierrot. 

For  her  sake     .     .     .     for  the  Lady's  sake ! 
Behind  here,  quick,  crouch  side  by  side. 
Speak  not  at  what  you  see     .     .     . 
You  do  not  know  what  strangeness  you  may  wake. 

Poet. 
The  orange  moons  float  by  the  silver  pool    .    .    . 

[20] 


Left    to    right :    Edwin  Strawhridge,  Harold  Meltzer,  Margaret 

Fareleigh  and  Everett  Glass  of  the  Greenwich 

Village  Theatre  Company. 


Kama    Marinoff,    as    Columbine,   and    Sidney    Carlisle,  as    The 

Melancholy  Pierrot,  in  the  final  tableau  at  the 

Greenwich  Village  Theatre. 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Marquis. 
I  have  my  sword. 

Fat  Pierrot. 
O,  fool,  fool,  fool ! 

For  your  own  sake,  Lady,  bid  them  run, 
Or  we  are  all  undone ! 

The  Lady,  really  badly  frightened, 
tries  to  pass  it  off  and  at  the  same 
time  to  get  the  men  moving,  with  a 
pretense  of  sport. 

Lady. 

I  know  ...  I  know! 
'Tis  like  a  children's  game. 
Here  I  go 

Hidden  behind  the  roses  high    .    .    , 
You  do  the  same    .     .     . 
Bend  down  low, 
Waiting  until  they  call  "  I  spy." 

They  imitate  her,  laughing,  and  crouch 
behind  the  bushes,  singing  in  an  ex 
aggeration  of  caution. 

Poet. 

Under  the  roses'  shadow  then, 
One  fair  lady,  two  brave  men, 
^Waiting  what  danger  comes  anigh    .    g    „ 
[21] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Marquis. 
Silent  keep, 

Do  not  peep, 

Waiting  until  they  call  "  I  spy !  " 

The  Fat  Pierrot  runs  hastily  to  the 
gate,  closes  it,  picks  up  basket  and 
umbrella  and  stands  visibly  shak 
ing.  From  the  right,  down  the 
steps,  comes  the  spangled,  black- 
visored  Harlequin,  followed  by  four 
Chinese  in  startling  robes,  each 
bearing  on  a  tall  bamboo  stick  a 
large  round  paper  lantern  of  a  deep 
blood-orange  color.  The  Fat  Pier 
rot  tries  to  creep  past. 

Harlequin. 

His  voice  is  deep  and  harsh. 
Halt! 

You're  late,  my  fat  friend,  very  late. 
We  waited  till  the  hour  was  past, 
Yet  no  sign  at  the  gate. 
Have  you  the  shroud? 
The  Fat  Pierrot  takes  cover  off  the  basket, 

mutely. 

[22] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

At  last ! 

Go,  bid  the  diggers  come    .    .    .    and  tell 

Dear  little  Columbine  to  prepare, 

To  dress  her  for    .    .    .    what  she  knows  well, 

And  say  that  moonrise  must  behold  her  .  .  .  here. 
The  Fat  Pierrot  hurries  out,  right,  like 
a  scared  jelly.  In  a  moment,  down 
the  steps,  come  marching  four 
tremendous  Negroes,  naked  to  the 
waist  and  swathed  below  in  some 
gaudy  cloth,  a  curved  scimeter 
hanging  from  each  one's  broad  sash, 
turbans  on  their  heads,  gold  hoops 
in  their  ears,  barefooted.  They 
carry  spades  and  mattocks. 

Harlequin. 

Dig    .    .    .    but  not  too  deep. 
She  who  will  sleep 
Is  very  little,  very  frail  and  slim. 
To  dig  so  deep  were  grim 
Sardonic  jest. 

Dig    .    .    .    while  I  summon  him. 
Dig    .     .     .    without  rest. 
[23] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

He  goes  out  with  his  lithe,  stealthy 
and  altogether  sinister  gait.  The 
Negroes  -fall  to  digging,  the  Chinese 
standing  about  them,  lighting  their 
work.  The  four  peep  from  behind 
the  roses,  full  of  disquiet. 

Lady. 
Softly. 

What  dreadful  thing  is  this?    ,    .    . 

These  black  and  Oriental  men    .     .     . 

That  spangled  thing  whose  speech  was  like  a  hiss 

Of  some  gay,  deadly  snake? 

Marquis. 

Bend  close  and  wait    .    .    .    and  then 
Watch  well  what  grave  they  make, 
What  vengeance  they  will  take. 

They  watch  in  silence.  The  Negroes 
dig.  Presently  the  Chinese,  watch 
ing  their  swaying  lanterns,  begin  to 
sing  in  strange,  quavering,  Oriental 
intervals. 

Chinese. 

We  are  the  Bearers  of  the  Lantern, 
We  are  the  Bearers  of  the  Moon, 
On  our  slender  willow  wands 
[24] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Poised  aloft 

Float  the  moons    .    .    * 

Orange,  tawny,  golden  moons    .    „    . 

Like  an  apple  stolen  from  Eden, 

Like  a  bubble     .     .     . 

Like  a  bubble  blown  of  sunset, 

Floating,  floating    .     .     . 

Like  a  tarnished  Roman  coin 

That  bore  once  the  head  of  Caesar    .    .    . 

Like  the  children's  Toy  Balloon    .    .    . 

We  are  the  Bearers  of  the  Moon. 

Lady. 
I  am  afraid! 

Marquis. 

Be  silent.     .     .     .    Wait. 

And  now  the  Negroes,  swaying  slowly 
at  their  digging,  give  labored  and 
guttural  answer. 

Negroes. 

Dig    ...     dig    ...     dig    ... 
This  is  not  our  moon  that  rises. 
Our  moon  pours  through  the  trees  of  Congo, 
Black  and  gold    .     .     .    black  and  gold 
For  the  Voodoo  sacrifice. 
Dig    ...    dig.     .     .     . 
[25] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Chinese. 

When  there  is  no  moon  in  heaven 
We  are  the  Makers  of  Moons. 

First  Chinese. 

This  is  the  moon  of  the  East 
Flat  and  carven  and  white. 

Second  Chinese. 
This  is  the  moon  of  the  North 
Cold  with  the  Northern  night. 

Third  Chinese. 

This  is  the  moon  of  the  golden  South 
Rich  and  swollen  with  delight. 

Fourth  Chinese. 
This  is  the  moon  of  the  West 
Where  the  wheat  ripes  under  its  ruddy  light. 

All  four  Chinese. 
When  there  is  no  moon  in  heaven, 
These  we  fashion  in  her  image. 
We  are  the  Makers  of  Moons. 

Lady. 

I  am  afraid     .     .     .     afraid! 
[26] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Negroes. 

Ours  is  a  moon  of  wailing, 
Wailing  and  blood     .     .     . 
Ours  is  the  moon  of  Voodoo, 
The  red  moon    .    .    . 
The  red  moon  of  the  black  folk    ,     ,    . 
Wailing  and  blood. 

Chinese. 

We  are  the  Bearers  of  the  Lantern, 
We  are  the  Bearers  of  the  Moon, 
Till  she  rise  lotus-like  and  mellow, 
Till  she  rise     .     .     .     soon. 
These  be  the  four  moons  of  the  garden, 
Moons  that  our  own  hands  have  made, 
Ours  is  a  fairer  moon  than  God's  moon, 
Ours  will  not  fade. 

Behind  the  roses  the  Poet  replies  In  a  hushed 
voice. 

Poet. 

These  are  the  Bearers  of  the  Lantern, 
These  are  the  Bearers  of  the  Moon, 
Hasten  the  true  moon  upon  us, 
Hasten  her    .     .     .     soon. 

[27] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Lady. 

These  are  the  dead  moons  of  the  garden, 
Moons  their  unclean  hands  have  made. 
Their  moons  are  evil  beside  God's  moon, 
I  am  afraid    .     .     .     afraid! 

The  Chinese  turn  to  the  Negroes. 

Chinese. 
Is  the  grave  made? 

Negroes. 
Not  yet  is  the  grave  made. 

Chinese. 
Dig,  then    ...     we  watch. 

A  moment's  pause.  Then,  from  the 
right,  down  the  steps,  comes  Colum 
bine,  running, — her  pretty  ballet 
dress  rumpled,  her  hair  once  bound 
up  with  rosebuds  falling  on  her 
shoulders.  She  runs  to  the  locked 
gate  and  shakes  the  bars,  showing 
despair.  All  her  movements  sug 
gest  the  art  of  the  ballerina. 
[28] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Columbine. 
Sobbing. 

Open    .    .    .    open! 

Gates,  iron  gates,  that  will  not  ope    s    *    « 
Moon,  cruel  moon,  that  soon  must  rise, 
Have  you  no  pity  for  me  here,  who  grope 
Against  your  bars  ?    And  must  your  saffron  eyes 
Behold  me  slain  ?    .     .     . 

The  Fat  Pierrot,  greatly  perturbed, 
runs  on  after  her,  and  in  panto 
mime,  always  in  pantomime  here 
after,  tries  to  get  her  away  from  the 
gate  and  out.     His  gestures  are  ab 
jectly  comic  and  she  pays  no  atten 
tion  to  him.     She  turns  from  the 
gate    and    stands    with    her    back 
against  it,  with  out  flung  arms. 
Because  my  laughter  in  the  sunny  hours 
Awoke  sweet  echoes  in  this  dying  place    .     .     . 
Because  I  strove  with  love  against  the  powers 
Who  fill  this  garden-close  with  death     .     .     . 
Because  my  very  face 
Was  beautiful  and  young, 
So  will  they  try  to  stop  my  singing  breath 
And  kill  the  songs  I  have  not  sung. 
[29] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

The  Fat  Pierrot  makes  another  at 
tempt,  in  vain.  Seeing  the  Lady's 
head  peeping  around  the  rose-hedge, 
he  waggles  his  hand  despairingly  at 
her,  as  If  begging  her  to  do  some 
thing.  She  calls  to  the  girl,  who 
has  hidden  her  face  on  her  arm. 

Lady. 
Columbine ! 

The  Men. 
Softly. 

Columbine     .     .     .     Columbine! 

She  turns  In  astonishment.     The  Lady's  voice 
goes  on. 

Lady. 

Here  where  the  roses  lift  and  twine, 
Here  in  shadowy  rose-flowers  hidden     .     ,     . 
Here  we  will  hide  you    .     .     . 

Columbine. 
Astonished. 

'Tis  forbidden     .     .     . 

Marquis. 
Here  are  swords  to  guard  you  well. 

Poet. 

Here  are  shadows  that  never  tell. 
[30] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Lady. 

Columbine,  Columbine,  hide  with  us  here, 
Wailing  means  danger.  .  .  .  Columbine,  dear ! 
She  is  on  the  point  of  running  behind 
the  rose-hedge  when  the  lutes  sound 
loudly  and  very  near,  and  Harlequin 
appears  on  the  steps.  Columbine 
throws  out  her  hands  despairingly, 
and  falls  with  a  moan  on  the  bench 
in  front  of  the  roses — on  her  back — 
long  slim  legs  lax,  one  hand  flung 
over  her  face,  as  if  she  had  fainted. 
Behind  Harlequin  as  he  descends  the 
steps  are  four  boys  who  might  have 
stepped  out  of  some  early  Italian 
painting — slender,  blonde-curled,  in 
sheath-tight  hose  and  doublet  of 
flame  color,  with  impertinent  little 
caps  on  the  back  of  the  head.  They 
carry  round-bellied  lutes  which  they 
pluck  without  ceasing,  but  with  re 
gard  to  what  happens.  Sometimes 
a  faint  accompaniment  to  speech 
and  action,  sometimes  suddenly  loud 
and  arresting  in  a  dead  pause. 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Behind  them  comes  slowly  the  Melan 
choly  Pierrot,  a  tall,  thin,  white- 
faced  thing  in  the  usual  loose 
clothes  of  a  Pierrot,  but  fashioned 
of  a  deep  purple  crepe  with  blood- 
red  rosettes  on  coat  and  shoes. 
His  wide  ruff  is  black;  so  is  his 
skull  cap.  His  white-washed  face 
is  very  drawn  and  lean, — with  hol 
low  dark  eyes  and  a  sardonic  slash 
of  scarlet  for  a  mouth.  A  tiny 
guitar  is  slung  round  his  neck  by  a 
broad  ribbon, — usually  he  carries  it 
at  his  back  so  as  not  to  be  in  the 
way.  He  is  very  absent  and  moody 
and  languid. 

Harlequin. 

Master,  behold,  the  grave  is  made, 
The  lanterns  wait,  the  lutanists  are  set, 
The  girl  is  shrouded     .     .     . 
All  is  ready  here. 

Pierrot. 
Not  hearing. 

The  mist  lies  over  pool  and  gla'de 
[32] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Like  some  veiled  face  I  knew  once    .    .    .    and 

forget    .     .    . 
The  sky  should  not  be  clouded    .     .    , 

Suddenly. 
What  do  we  here  ? 

Harlequin. 
Master,  you  know. 

Pierrot. 

The  sky  is  very  clear. 
There  is  no  moon. 

Harlequin. 
The  moon  is  very  late. 

Pierrot. 

Angrily. 

I  bade  you  have  a  moon ! 

Harlequin. 
Soothingly. 

Soon    .     .     .     soon    .    .    .    but  wait. 
Or    ...    here  are  little  moonlets  at  your  hand. 

Pierrot. 

The  stars  are  ready  and  the  trees  stand  fast, 
The  water  in  the  fountain  springs  aghast, 
[33] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

The  rose  blooms  will  be  faithful  to  the  last.    .    .    . 
Shall  the  moon  make  me  wait    .    .    .    when  / 

command  ? 

Harlequin. 

Master,  the  moon  is  slow  to-night. 
He  makes  a  sign  to  the  Chinese  to  show,  their 
moons. 

Chinese. 

We  are  the  Bearers  of  the  Lantern, 
We  are  the  Bearers  of  the  Moon, 
Can  one  moon  pour  a  larger  light 
Than  our  red  bubbles  in  the  dark? 

Pierrot. 
I  bade  the  moon !    The  moon  is  late    .    .    . 

then  hark ! 

In  a  rage  he  scatters  the  Chinese,  faces  the  wall 
and  sky  and  stands  with  arms  outstretched. 
Lady  of  dark  thought  and  of  darker  deed. 
Mistress  of  shadows  and  of  cruel  seas, 
Huntress  among  the  timid  Pleiades, 
Come    ...    in  our  need. 

Chinese. 

White  moon,  golden  moon,  moon  red  as  fire, 
Race  across  the  seas  to  us, 
Give  us  our  desire. 

[34] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Pierrot. 

Mistress  of  this  garden-close, 
To  whose  light  the  fountains  leap, 
In  the  dark  the  roses  sleep, 
Come    .    .    .    and  wake  the  rose. 

Negroes. 

Red  moon,  golden  moon,  moon  white  as  flame, 
Moon  of  Congo  forests     .     „     .     come 
By  thy  dreadful  name ! 

Pierrot. 

Pilgrim  of  a  lonely  way, 

To  our  garden  swinging  low, 

For  a  while  delay  the  dreadful  day, 

Come    ...    to  Pierrot! 

At  the  words  the  moon  appears  over 
the  garden  wall,  a  deep  ruddy  gold 
in  color,  a  man's  height  in  diameter. 
It  rises  till  it  seems  to  poise  on  the 
top  of  the  wall  like  a  bubble,  then 
stops  and  remains  fixed  till  the  end. 
Its  left  quarter  shines  through  the 
delicate  lace-work  of  the  peach 
foliage.  As  it  rises  slowly  the 
[35] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Chinese  prostrate   themselves  and 
their  little  moons. 

Chinese. 

We  are  the  Bearers  of  the  Lantern, 
She  is  the  true,  the  very  moon, 
Like   a   golden    bubble    floating    .     .    .    float 
ing    ... 
Go  not  too  soon! 
Pause  while  Pierrot  looks  pensively  at  the  moon. 

Pierrot. 

The  moon  is  young  and  sweet  to-night, 

Hung  on  the  night's  blue  vine 

Like  some  great  fruit  of  rose  and  gold, 

Young  and  sweet    .     .     .    rose  and  gold    .    .    . 

Passionate     .     .     .     like  Columbine. 

With  a  sudden  start  of  remembrance. 
Columbine    .     .     .     where  is  Columbine? 
Bring  her  to  me ! 

Ah,  if  the  moon  were  gray  and  cold, 
Like  a  woman  veiled  and  old, 
Ah,  if  the  moon  were  wan  and  white    .     .    . 
So  might  I  spare  her     .     .     .     for  to-night. 
Bring  her  to  me ! 

[36] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Harlequin. 

There  she  lies.    Let  her  come  forth. 
She  knows  the  way  that  she  must  go, 
Since  she  mocked  at  Pierrot, 
Fragile    .    .    .    little  worth! 

Pierrot  crosses  to  where  Columbine 
lies  lax  on  the  bench,  her  face 
hidden,  and  bends  over  her  with 
yearning  hands. 

Pierrot. 

Fragile    .    .    .    but  oh,  so  sweet ! 

How  can  I  kill  ?     .     .     . 

Columbine  dear, 

See,  it  is  moon  rise     .     .     .     see,  at  your  feet, 

Once  more  kneeling    .     .     .     Pierrot's  here! 

Wildly. 
Strangle  that  white,  young  throat     .     .     .     and 

still 

Her  song  like  a  bird's  at  daybreak? 
Columbine,  loveliest     .     .     .     wake! 

Harlequin,   who   has   been  watching 
angrily,  crosses  and  lays  his  hand 
heavily  on  his  master's  shoulder. 
[37] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Harlequin. 

No,  Pierrot. 

Have  you  forgotten? 

Rose  and  gold,  sweet  to  the  taste, 

Like  a  sweet  apple,  mellow    .     .     .     and  rotten, 

Worms  at  the  heart,  decaying  within, 

Sweet,    .     .     .    yes,  sweet    .    .     .    sweet,  as 

sin! 
Lovely  to  pluck    .    .    .    bitter  to  taste. 

Pierrot. 

Sadly. 
Lovely  to  pluck    .    .    .    bitter  to  taste. 

Harlequin. 

No,  Pierrot! 

Have  you  forgotten? 

False  to  the  heart, 

Wanton  and  light  as  a  bird 

In  its  flight, 

Your  mistress,  my  mistress,  lover  of  any 

Lad  whom  she  meets     .     .     . 

Can  she  be  lovely,  allowing  so  many 

To  taste  of  her  sweets  ? 

[38] 


BEHIND  AWATTEAU  PICTURE 

Pierrot. 
Dully. 

Allowing  so  many  to  taste  of  her  sweets. 
But  sweet    .    .    .    yes,  sweet? 

Harlequin. 
No,  Pierrot ! 

Can  you  forget? 
How  she  deceives  you, 
Fools  you  and  leaves  you 
Without  a  regret, 

Slips  from  your  covers  to  kiss  with  new  lovers, 
And  she  believes     .     .     . 

She    .    .  .    can    .    .    .    fool    .    .    .    you  yet! 
Pierrot  flings  him  off  in  a  burst  of  passion. 

Pierrot. 

Be  still     .     .     .     you  spangled,  spying  thing! 
Look,  she  is  suffering. 

He  raises  her  very  gently  in  his  arms. 
Her  eyes  unclose  and  search  his 
adoring  ones,  then  she  smiles  a 
very  satisfied,  cat-a-cornered  smile. 
Pierrot  kneels  by  her,  as  she  leans 
back  lazily,  fondling  her  hands. 
She  does  not  respond  at  all. 
[39] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Sweet    .    .    .    sweet! 

Lift  me  from  kneeling  at  your  feet, 

Laugh  in  my  eyes    .     .     .    give  me  your  mouth 

For  my  lips  are  faint  with  drouth. 

To  Harlequin. 

Fill  in  the  grave    .    .    .    and  softly  go  from 

sight. 

She  shall  not  die  to-night, 
But  this  moonrise 

Shall  shine  upon  a  garden  of  delight. 
Oh,  see  how  every  blossom  lies, 
Open  and  fragrant  for  our  happiness    .    ^    g 
Dear,  dear  child, 
Lay  your  cool  fingers  in  caress 
Upon  my  mouth.     Pierrot  is  reconciled! 

Pause  for  a  moment,  while  Columbine 
makes  sure  of  what  is  in  his  eyes. 
Then  she  laughs,  deliberately,  un 
twines  his  arms  from  about  her 
waist,  rises,  looks  down  scornfully 
at  the  wonder  and  adoration  in  his 
eyes,  then,  with  utmost  care  and  art 
begins  to  dance,  with  a  most  in- 
[40] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

solent  step  around  him,  snapping 
her  fingers  like  castanets. 

Columbine. 

Oh    ...    oh    ...    poor  Pierrot, 

All  in  black 

Like  a  melancholy  crow.     .    .    . 

You  must  dress  in  rose  and  gold 

When  you  come  a-wooing  me, 

Paint  your  face  that  grows  too  old, 

Or  you're  not  for  me    .    ,    .    la-la ! 

Pierrot. 
Columbine ! 

Columbine^ 

Smiling  in  his  face. 
Kill  me  if  you  can, 
Am  I  not  too  fair? 
Let  your  spangled  man 
Kill  me  if  he  dare. 

With  languor. 

In  the  moonlight  Pierrot's  aflame    ,    .    . 
The  moon  perchance  or  I  perchance  to  blame  .  .  . 
[41] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Pierrot  will  die  unless  I  kinder  grow, 
So  kiss  me     .     .     .     Pierrot. 

She  stoops  her  face  to  his,  her  arms 

round  his  neck.     He  crushes  her  to 

him  with  a  groan. 

Pierrot. 
Sweet    .    .    .     sweet! 

Columbine. 

She  holds  her  cheek  close  to  his. 
You  will  not  kill  me  now? 
Kiss  me  again    .     .     . 
You  cannot  still  me  now. 
Am  I  safe  again  ? 

He  lets  his  arms  fall  loosely  from  her; 
his  eyes  stare  at  her  dully,  as  if  he 
did  not  understand.     She  rises  and 
stands    over    him,    sparkling,    tri 
umphant. 
So,  Pierrot, 
Too  beautiful,  too  beautiful  to  die? 

Joyously. 

Love  hangs  too  high  for  Death  to  gather  in, 
Love  lives  eternally,  sweeter  than  sin, 
[42] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Love  kisses  once  and  goes  laughing  on  her  way, 

Love  leaves  the  lips  she  knows  for  new  lips  every 
day, 

Love  feeds  on  fresh  desire,  ever  to  warm  her, 

Lovers  fade    .    .    .    but  love  can  never  tire    .    .    . 

Death  cannot  harm  her. 

And  goes  off  again  in  her  shameless, 
tiptoe  dance  round  Pierrot,  who 
stares  blindly  in  front  of  him. 

So    ...     so     ...     Master  Pierrot, 

Kiss  me  once  and    ...     let  me  go. 

You  have  given  me  your  pardon, 

You  shall  watch  me  dance  o'  nights, 

Joyous  all  across  your  garden, 

Seeking  new  delights. 

You  shall  see  me  luring  lovers  old  and  lovers  new, 

If  your  passion  is  enduring     .     .     . 

Passion  pity  you ! 

He  rises  as  if  horror-struck  to  an 
swer  her  as  she  again  sings  her 
song  in  praise  of  love. 

Love  hangs  too  high 

For  Death  to  gather  in, 

Love  lives  eternally 

Sweeter  than  sin; 

[43] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Love  feeds  on  fresh  desire 

Ever  to  warm  her, 

Lovers  fade  but  Love  can  never  tire, 

Death  cannot  harm  her. 

Pierrot. 

Love  is  too  kind 

Ever  to  blame  me, 

Love  has  no  cruel  mind 

Always  to  shame  me ; 

If  this  be  Love  in  truth    .    g    g 

Not  her  betrayer ! 

Passion  dies,  but  Love  is  very  youth    .    .    g 

Death  cannot  slay  her. 

At  the  end  Columbine  laughs  and  ap 
proaches  too  fondly  one  of  the 
boyish  pages.  Pierrot  passes  his 
hand  across  his  eyes  as  if  waking 
from  a  bad  dream,  and  never  taking 
his  eyes  off  her,  motions  to  Harle 
quin. 

Harlequin!    .    .    . 

She  is  not  Love, 

So  light  Love  could  not  grow 

My  heart  is  dead  from  her. 
[44] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Columbine. 
Oh,  poor  Pierrot ! 

Pierrot. 

In  the  same  low,  die-away  voice. 
The  shadows  whisper  and  the  moon  is  still, 
None  lifts  a  voice  for  her.    .    .    . 

Loudly. 
Harlequin    ...    do  your  wilL 

Harlequin. 
Bind  her.    The  grave  is  ready. 

The  Negroes  move  forward.  Colum 
bine  suddenly  awakes  to  her  danger, 
shrieks,  tries  to  hide  among  the 
page-boys  but  they  push  her  away. 
She  turns  at  last  to  Pierrot,  confi- 
'dent,  but  he  has  wandered  over  to 
the  steps  and  stands  with  an  elbow 
on  the  balustrade,  picking  at  his 
little  guitar,  sunk  in  apathy. 

Columbine. 

Pierrot    .    .    .    Pierrot! 
[45] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Harlequin. 
Terribly. 

Bind  her. 

And  lay  her  there. 

Just  as  the  Negroes  are  about  to  seize 
her,  she  shrieks  again.  From  the 
rose-hedge  the  Lady  runs  to  her 
side  and  enfolds  her.  Before  her 
appear  the  two  men  with  drawn 
swords. 

Lady. 

Here  are  swords,  Columbine. 
They  will  not  dare. 

The  Negroes  recoil,  Harlequin  throws  out  his 
hands  fiercely. 

Harlequin. 

Foes  in  the  garden !     .     .     . 
Slay     .     .     .     slay! 

The  Negroes  advance  with  drawn 
scimeters,  but  suddenly  Pierrot 
strikes  a  peremptory  chord  on  his 
guitar  and  the  swords  drop.  Pier 
rot  comes  down  the  steps  and 
crosses  to  the  strangers,  and  looks 
them  over  rather  wearily,  incurious. 
[46] 


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c  -c 


BEHIND  AWATTEAU  PICTURE 

Pierrot. 

Why  do  you  come  here    .     .     . 
Is  it  dull  outside  ? 

This  is  a  dull  and  weary  garden  here. 
From  year  to  silent  year 
None  comes  inside. 

Who  told  you  stories  of  the  sad  Pierrot  ? 
Now  you  have  seen  me     ...     go. 

.    Harlequin. 

Open  the  gate,  fat  friend,  and  drive  them  hence, 

Then  you  and  I,  fat  friend, 

Shall  settle  your  recompense. 

The  Fat  Pierrot  melts  visibly  with 
terror.  The  Negroes  advance  again 
to  take  Columbine  who,  safe  among 
the  swords,  smiles  unendurably  at 
Harlequin.  The  Lady  waves  the 
Negroes  back. 

Lady. 

Nay    .     .     .    you  shall  not ! 
Think  you  to  do  your  wicked  will 
Here  in  this  deadly  spot 
Where  all  is  chill     .     .    . 
And  humankind  forgot  ? 

[47] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Columbine  goes  with  us    «    t    fe    we  are  not 

afraid. 
You  shall  not  kill  the  maid. 

Marquis. 

Not  while  a  sword  is  mine 
To  guard  Columbine. 

Pierrot  looks  from  Columbine,  full  of 
indecent  triumph,  to  the  earnest 
three  and  smiles,  very  gently  and 
sadly.  But  Harlequin  does  not  take 
it  so  calmly. 

Harlequin. 

So  soon  ?    Has  she  bewitched  you  too  ? 
She  is  a  cold  and  heartless  thing 
For  all  her  loveliness, 
Her  pretty  wantoning    .     .     . 
She  holds  men's  hearts  in  sick  duress, 
You  know  not  what  you  do ! 

Poet. 

She  is  a  lovely  thing  in  evil  stead, 
Too  lovely  to  lie  dead 
Under  this  strange  moonshine.     .    ?    . 

[48] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Nay,  she  shall  lift  her  sunny  head 

Far  from  these  walls    .     .     .     and  laugh  I 

Harlequin. 
Grimly. 

Her  lips  like  wine 

Make  drunken  those  who  quaff. 

Give  her  to  us  to  kill. 

Pierrot. 

Breaking  his  absent  silence  at  last. 
The  moon  is  silent  ever    .     .     .     gives  no  sign. 
These  men  are  young  and  foolish  in  their  youth. 
Think  ye  she  will  have  ruth 
Upon  them    .     .     .     Columbine? 
Loose  her    ...     let  her  have  her  will. 

Upon  his  sign  the  Negroes  retire  and 
the  Fat  Pierrot  smiling  throws  aside 
the  gate.  Then  Pierrot  retires  to 
the  steps,  right,  to  watch  the  sport. 
Harlequin  glowers  by  the  grave. 
Columbine  is  most  effusive,  but 
makes  no  move  to  go,  and  one  can 
see  from  her  smile  and  the  way 
she  eyes  the  men  that  she  intends 
to  have  a  good  time.  The  men 
[49] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

warm  rapidly  to  her.  The  Lady, 
at  first  kind  and  protecting,  as 
the  scene  progresses  grows  doubt 
ful,  distrustful,  hostile,  and  finally 
afraid  of  Columbine. 

Columbine. 

O  gallant  hearts,  friends  mine, 
Columbine  loves  you !     .     .     . 

Lady. 

See,  the  gate  is  wide! 
Let  us  go  quickly. 

Columbine. 

No,  no    ...     shall  we  not  bide 
A  little,  little  while 

And  mock  this  melancholy  thing  in  black, 
Who  wears  such  sorry  smile? 
Shall  we  not  dance  and  laugh  upon  his  lack, 
Dance,  dance,     .     .     .     and  smile? 

Pierrot. 

As  Columbine  coquets  outrageously,  ballet- 
fashion. 

O  moon,  behold,  the  play  begins  apace ! 
Shine,  moon     .     .     .     sound  lutes.     .     .     . 
Now  that  lovely  face, 

[50] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

That  mouth  whose  speech  is  sweet  as  silver  flutes, 
Shall  breathe  a  madness  in  this  quiet  place.    .    .    . 
Laugh,  lutes  and  viols, 
Dance,  dear  sorcery! 

Lady. 

Uneasily. 

I  am  afraid.    Let's  go  home    .    .    .    soon. 

Marquis. 

Not  till  we  dance.    Mistress,  a  boon ! 
Dance  first  with  me. 

Poet. 
Nay,  with  me,  sweet. 

Marquis. 
No,  'tis  I  have  the  lighter  feet! 

Poet, 

Dance  with  me.     .     .     .    Dance  with  me.    .    .    . 

Marquis. 
Choose  you  the  stronger. 

Poet. 
Pouf !    He  will  tire    ...    I  can  dance  longer. 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Lady. 
Let  us  go  home.    .    .    .    I  am  afraid. 

Columbine. 
Scornfully. 

Poor,  frightened  maid ! 
With  a  bright  idea. 
Whom  shall  I  dance  with? 
Him  I  shall  kiss. 

She  pirouettes  to  the  Marquis  and  kisses  him 
lightly. 

Marquis. 
Madly. 

Kiss  me  again. 

Leaving,  she  kisses  the  Poet  twice,  watching 
the  Marquis  over  her  shoulder. 

Columbine. 

Like  this.     .     .     .     Like  this? 
Pity  should  any  one  miss !     ...     So  this ! 
Whom  shall  I  dance  with     .     .     .     come,  decide ! 

The  Men. 
Me  she  kissed  best. 

She  dances  with  me     .     .     .     with  me.     .     .    . 
[52] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Columbine. 
To  both. 

One  only  dances  with  me. 
Does  your  pride 
Suffer  this  braggart  so  to  brawl? 
Dance  with  me  quickly     ...     or  not  at  all. 

Lady. 
Wildly. 

O  evil  of  the  world, 

Passion,  whose  other  name  is  death ! 

Come  away,  come  away.     .     .     . 

Leave  this  dancing  girl     ...     I  am  afraid. 

Poet. 

My  lips  are  drunken  with  the  kiss  of  her, 
My  arms  are  aching  for  her  body  sweet.     .     .    , 

Marquis. 

Yea,  though  deathwards  go  our  feet, 
Yet  I  shall  dance  with  her. 

Columbine. 
No  one     .     .     .     save  one     .     .     .     shall  dance 

with  me  to-night. 
Choose,  choose,  my  masters ! 
Suddenly  the  Marquis  draws  his  sword  angrily. 
[53] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Marquis. 
Lo,  my  right 

To  choose  her    ?    .    .    flashes  in  my  hand ! 
The  Poet  draws  also.    Pierrot's  voice  rings 
from  the  steps. 

Pierrot. 

Now,  do  you  understand  ? 
Lady,  beware.     .     .     . 

Lady. 

Flinging  herself  between  the  men. 
No,  no.     ...    You  will  not  dare 
To  fight,  to  perish  for  that  painted  thing ! 
Put  up  your  swords.    Will  you  kill  me,  too  ? 
Have  you  no  pity  for  my  suffering?  .  .  .  A-a-ah! 
The    Marquis    has    pushed    her    so 
violently  to  one  side  that  she  swoons 
on    the    bench,    hiding    her    head. 
Columbine   circles   eagerly   around 
the  tense  men,  clapping  her  hands. 

Columbine. 

How  splendid     .     .     .     thus  to  woo 
With  blades  bright  in  the  moon, 
Fight  for  me    ...     while  I  dance. 
You  shall  have  music  while  your  swords  glance. 
[54] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

She  kisses  each  of  them  passionately. 
A  kiss  for  you     ...     for  each  of  you. 
Who  will  live  to  love  me  yet 
After  this  bloody  minuet? 

She  springs  away,  clapping  her  hands. 
The  lutanists  strike  up  a  rather 
stately  minuet,  Columbine  swaying 
and  gesturing  in  her  place  to  the 
music,  while  the  Marquis  and  the 
Poet  take  their  stand.  From  the 
steps  Pierrot  sings  softly  in  time  to 
the  music* 

Pierrot. 

Tis  a  pretty  dance  they  dance, 
Columbine ! 

'Tis  a  quaint  and  pretty  measure. 
See  how  brightly  their  blades  glance, 
Columbine ! 
Dancing  for  your  sorry  pleasure. 

The  Chinese,  Negroes  and  lutanists  take  up 

the  strain. 

See,  the  moon  is  glowing  red, 
And  the  night  holds  her  breath, 
Soon  the  earth  shall  be  their  bed    .    .     . 
For  these  dance  with  Death ! 
[55] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

As  the  men  salute,  Columbine  holds  out  her 
hand  to  Pierrot. 

Columbine. 
Sad  Pierrot,  let  us  dance,  too ! 

Pierrot. 
Descending  to  her,  taking  her  hand  with  a 

cold  smile. 

Fitting  that  I  should  dance  with  you 
While  men  are  dying!    .    .    .     Sirs,  engage. 

The  lutes  strike;  the  men  cross  swords 
and  fight,  while  Columbine  and 
Pierrot  move  through  the  minuet, — 
the  attendants  singing  as  before. 
This  time  it  breaks  off  toward  the 
end  with  a  jangling  chord  as  the 
Poet  drives  the  Marquis  through 
the  heart  and  receives  the  other's 
blade  near  the  same  place. 

Marquis. 
Antoinette ! 
He  dies. 

Lady. 
Love! 

She  staggers  to  the  body  and  falls. 
[56] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Columbine. 
Bends   over  Poet  writhing   on   the  grass, 

pointing  to  the  other  two  carelessly. 
Deadf 
Now    ...    we  can  dance,  I  and  you. 

Poet. 

Nay    ...    I  shall  dance  no  more. 

I,  too,  shall  die. 

Yet  fortunate,  if  you    .    .    .    sweetheart   .   .   s 

are  by. 

Pillow  my  fallen  head  upon  your  breast.     .    .     . 
Kiss  me  again     .     .     .     till  I  forget  the  rest. 
Remembering  the  best    .     .     . 
That  for  sweet  Love  I  die. 

But  Pierrot,  standing  over  him  sorrowfully, 

shakes  his  head. 

Pierrot. 

Fair  sir,  lift  up  your  eyes  and  see 
This  is  not  Love. 

Love  is  a  kind  thing,  Love  is  true    .    .    » 
Love  was  not  meant  for  you, 
But  this  false  fair    .    .    .    this  painted,  rosy 
thing    .    .    . 

[57] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

This  golden  sham  who    .    .    t    to  your  sorrow 
ing    ... 

Kissed  you  with  lips  of  dust, 
Quickened  your  blood  to  lust    .     .     . 
So  die  you  now    ...    as  die  you  must   .   .   . 
For  Passion's  cruelty. 


Poet. 

Feebly. 

Nay,  it  is  Love    .    .    .    her  face  is  close  and 

dear, 

Love,  are  you  here    .    .    .    are  you  here  ? 
Your  arms  are  warm,  your  breast 
Like  a  soft,  sleepy  nest.    .    .    . 

Suddenly. 

I  cannot  see  the  moon  now  for  the  dark. 

Bend  your  dear  face  close  and  closer,  Love, 

Kiss  me  again    .     .     . 

Columbine    .    .    .    Columbine    .    .    .    Love! 
He  dies.     The  lutes  jangle  into  dis 
cord  again.    Pierrot  looks  down  for 
a  time  at  the  body.     But  Columbine 
disengages  herself  with  a  gesture  of 
distaste;  touches  the  body  lightly 
[58] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

with  her  slipper,  and  walks  away, 
swinging  her  hips,  humming  her 
earlier  melody. 

Columbine. 

Oh !     Oh !     .     .     .     See,  Pierrot, 
Two  pretty  gentlemen 
Lying  in  a  row, 
Each  crying  for  the  moon, 
Each  wanting    .     „     .    mine, 
Oh,  happy  gentlemen, 
Poor  Columbine! 

Pierrot. 

With  a  terrible  gesture. 
Be  silent ! 

Columbine  wanders  right,  and  poses 
in  an  attitude  of  graceful  dejection 
against  the  base  of  a  marble.    Pier 
rot  goes  to  the  Lady  and  lifts  her 
gently  from  her  husband's  body  and 
supports  her. 
Dear  Lady,  rise 
And  do  not  sorrow  so.     ... 
Look  not  upon  me  with  such  staring  eyes. 
Once    ...    a  long  time  past    .    .    B    I  bade 
you  go. 

[59] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Lady.. 

Where  may  I  go 
Now  that  I  am    ...    alone? 

Pierrot. 

Harlequin  here  shall  lead  you  back  to  life, 
Safe    .    .     .     safe  home. 
Harlequin !  lead  her  tenderly 
Home  through  the  empty  streets  and  still, 
Sing  to  her,  magic  her  with  song  until 
She  can  forget  all  this  fantastic  past 
And  sleep    ...    at  last. 

Lady. 
Pointing,  as  her  eyes  fall  on  Columbine, 

bitterly. 

She  lives    .    .    .    and  so  I  shall  not  lay  my  curse 
On  you  and  on  this  garden. 

Pierrot. 
Understanding,  with  a  hopeless  shrug  of  the 

shoulders. 
Nay,  'twere  worse 

To  leave  her  here  with  me  than  bury  me 
Under  the  wall.     .     .    . 

[60] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

We  two  in  this  garden 

All  the  deadly  years 

Must  love  and  hate,  with  laughter  and  with  tears, 

Dying,  yet  never  free  of  life,  but  she 

Forever  mine  and  ever    .    .    .    Columbine ! 

Lady. 
And  you?    It  is  my  right  to  know. 

Pierrot. 

I    ...    am  the  Melancholy  Pierrot 
Some  call  her  Light-o-Love,  false  as  breath, 
Some  call  me    ...    Death. 

Lady. 
Shivering. 

Farewell !    Your  smile  is  cold  upon  my  heart. 

Pierrot. 
Harlequin ! 

Harlequin  puts  his  arm  around  the 
drooping  Lady  and  leads  her  slowly 
out  of  the  gate.  The  lutes  are 
sorrowful.  Pierrot  looks  about, 
stretching  forth  anguished  hands. 
So  depart 

All  true  and  lovely  life  from  this  retreat ! 
[61] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

In  a  monotone. 
How  ugly  those  are    .    .    .    dead.    Take  up 

their  feet 
And  bury  them ! 

The  Negroes  drag  the  bodies  roughly  across  the 

grass  and  dump  them  into  the  open  grave. 
Lock  the  gate,  fat  friend.     .     .     .     No,  you  need 

not  wait. 
Go !    .    .    .    all  of  you. 

He  flings  his  hands  out  in  dismissal. 
The  Fat  Pierrot,  who  has  been  hid 
ing  behind  the  bushes,  creeps  out, 
locks  the  gate  and  scurries  away, 
his  legs  bending  under  him.  The 
Negroes  shoulder  their  spades  and 
mattocks  and  shuffle  out.  But  the 
Chinese  go  as  they  came,  singing 
slowly  under  their  lanterns,  the 
lutanists  following,  accompanying 
them,  till  both  strumming  and 
chanting  die  away,  beyond  on  the 
right. 

Chinese. 

We  are  the  Makers  of  Madness, 
We  are  the  Makers  of  Moons, 
[62] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

Like  a  rosy  bubble  floating, 

Like  a  poison,  magic  bubble, 

That  men  grow  mad  to  look  on    .    *    , 

We  are  the  Makers  of  Madness    .    .    „ 

Makers  of  Moons. 

Columbine  turns  away  from  the 
marble,  looks  keenly  at  Pierrot,  but 
he  meets  her  gaze  with  folded  arms 
and  wry  smile;  so  she  goes  with 
dragging  feet  toward  the  gate. 

Columbine. 

Shaking  the  gate  wildly. 
The  gate  is  locked ! 
Let  me  out    .    .    .    out    .    •.-     ,    out ! 

Pierrot. 
Smiling  coldly. 
To  kill  more  men,  no  doubt. 
No,  you  bide  here 

To  comfort  me  with  your  red  smiles,  my  dear. 
And  when  you  long  for  amorous  company, 
You  may  kiss    .     .     .    me. 

He  turns  his  back  on  her  and  climbs 
up  the  steps  along  the  wall,  right 
[63] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

back.  Presently  he  appears,  sitting 
on  the  top  of  the  wall,  a  thin  black 
figure,  with  chin  bent  down  on  his 
knees,  brooding.  He  is  silhouetted 
sharply  against  the  perfect  golden 
disk  of  the  moon. 

Below  Columbine  peers  through  the 
grille  in  the  gate,  calling  to  any 
chance  passer-by. 

Columbine. 
Will  no  one  hear  me, 
Columbine  singing, 
Poor,  sweet  Columbine?    .    ,    fc 
I  have  love  to  give, 
Kisses  and  delight    .    .    . 
Open,  lads     .     .     .     and  let  me  live 
Free  among  you  in  the  streets  at  night. 
Can  you  not  hear  me  call 
Behind  the  wall? 

Trying  for  her  old  careless,  insolent  manner. 
Love  feeds  on  fresh  desire 
Ever  to  warm  her, 
Lovers  fail  but  Love  can  never  tire.     .    .    . 

She  breaks  'down,  sobbing,  her  body 
[64] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

writhing  against  the  grille.  On  the 
top  of  the  wall,  Pierrot  strikes  a 
few  mournful  chords  on  his  little 
guitar,  and  with  face  raised  to  the 
moon,  sings  the  melody  the  Poet 
sang  outside  the  wall. 

Pierrot. 

There  is  a  garden  where 
Love  lies  beneath  the  moon. 
Golden  and  rose  and  fair, 
Love     ...     in  a  swoon. 
Lads  full  of  hardihood, 
Flee  when  you  hear  her  call, 
Love  bringeth  nought  of  good 
Over  Death's  wall. 

In  another,  a  minor  key. 
O  sorry  hearts  of  dust ! 
Love  sings  a  tawdry  lie, 
Passion,  her  name,  and  Lust 
When  you  come  nigh.     .     .     . 
You  whom  she  slayeth  soon 
Love  will  not  pardon, 
Love  dwells  beyond  the  moon    .    .;    g 
Not  in  Death's  garden. 

[65] 


BEHIND  A  WATTEAU  PICTURE 

During  the  last  lines  the  moon  and 
other  lights  die  out.  When  they  leap 
up  again,  we  see  the  Watteau  group 
posed  motionless  as  at  the  opening, 
outside  the  wall.  But  .  .  .  from 
over  the  wall,  behind  the  picture, 
we  hear  the  last  bars  of  Pierrot's 
bitter  little  song. 


THE  CURTAIN  FALLS 


[66] 


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